My Father's Oatmeal
My father placed it in a bowl,
in a bowl, before me.
It made me sorry to my soul.
'Twas then that I could see...
that I became aware...
the oatmeal sitting there
was not oatmeal I could eat -
I'd asked for cream of wheat,
and the cereal of my father,
my own dear uncle's brother,
sat uneaten, and grew cold,
as both of us grew old.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
